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September 14, 2014 by Wayne.

Like all my bitch ass stories, this one starts with :

So there’s this girl

– i met her at the bus stop, waiting for the 6.20
– she swept into class real late, and I watched her cheeks redden slightly from the attention
– we met at a mutual friend’s birthday, about half a year before he left for the midwest and cut all contact
– 20 books a month, she said, and we clapped politely
– at the concert, we swapped numbers and I bought her an overpriced beer but we/I got bored by/before the 3rd date
– Field recordings, In Aisce, mephedrone, Elle Fanning, clinomania

And then,

She broke my heart

or I’ll describe it in slightly more descriptive / cliched ways, like

– I needed her to stay together in a life of breaking down and unevenly ironed emotional stability
– I didn’t care much for ice cream before her, but now blueberry cheesecake reminds me of circling her areola and lapping at the hardened peak, following the drip down to her heat
– She drove to my house after 4 months of no conversation to return the necklace on what would have been our anniversary
– And I’ll retreat into simmering misanthropy and meaningless fucks
– like it means nothing to you, fucking loyalty – not grasping the first shaft that bobs at your head and letting him fuck your ass, not hitting on Franco boys when you’re supposed to be with me, for fuck‘s sake
– But I loved you though, I thought you loved me too though, so what’s up with this though

And it’ll end with:

She left

– Growing up? Fuck that. Let me figure myself out first
– Fuck Kantian Dickinson love, fuck experience
– Fuck faceless girls every 4 days, sick of being alone, sick of their squirming and squealing, sick of Susan’s slightly overly curved nose which would have been a cute pixie if it was a couple of degrees less but now it looks fucking ugly close up when she clenches me close to her as we fuck and her eyes are gripped shut in disgust
– Expurgate thoughts of she, thoughts of me, thoughts of fuck whatever, reload by the fourth anyway
– Blunting Ls, referencing Barraclough, rose champagne on ice, fuck it
– Can I just fucking live

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